


Two Hours is All That I Ask For

by lostonthisisland



Category: Green Day
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:52:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostonthisisland/pseuds/lostonthisisland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tragedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Hours is All That I Ask For

Two hours ago his friend was breathing.

“Shit. Hey…hey, he ain’t movin’… Shit.”

“Oh god. No, oh god…”

“Fuck. I think he’s dead, man.” 

“Shit! … Shit!”

“No…”

“Well, what do we do? What do we do, man?”

“Call the fucking cops!”

“Can’t call the cops! You fuckin’ high?”

“What do we do with him, man? He’s dead!”

“No shit he’s dead! Fuck.”

“…’im off at the hospi…”

“…many questions, what’re…”

“…’onna do, man. What the…”

“…he take? What … fuckin’ give him?”

“I didn’t… ‘een watchin’ the fucker … no fuckin’ babysitter.”

Voices floating in and out of his head. He doesn’t know what they mean. He can’t think. Just…

God…no…

Why?

He keeps his eyes away from his friend’s face. He can’t bear to see. 

Instead he stares at a hand. Pale and unmoving, dangling an inch above the shag carpet. Calloused fingers and bitten nails.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to…

He chokes on the word inside his thoughts. This isn’t real. He’ll wake up soon. It can’t be.

“…have to move him.”

Words come back to him as a hand lands on his shoulder. It’s pushing him away and he doesn’t want it to, but his body doesn’t respond to his thoughts. It responds to the hand and he falls back from where he was crouched on his knees in front of the couch.

He watches through a blurry world as they move around him, hands hesitantly landing on his friend’s body, gripping, lifting.

“No!”

He lurches unsteadily to his feet and shoves at them. Vultures.

“C’mon man, we can’t leave him here.”

“No!”

It’s all he can manage to say.

They reach to move him out of the way and he shoves at one of them with one hand, his other lands on his friend’s prone chest. 

He flinches at once, yanking the appendage back like it’s been burned and his head swivels around to see. And oh god, it’s not right. His face is all wrong. The skin almost looks taut. Lips and eyelids tinged an unnatural color.

Grief closes his throat up as they move him out of the way successfully this time. All he can do is watch. Their hands are on his friend again and by the time they lift him the world has been submerged into water. Everything blurs and he can’t see anymore.

The floor is under his knees again and how did that happen? A sound is ripping from his throat, loud and painful. This can’t be happening. He needs to wake up. 

He watches the blurry shapes struggle with the dead weight of his best friend’s body. They move through the basement and up the stairs until he’s lost sight of them.

Two hours ago his friend was breathing. Two hours ago everything was normal. A party in someone’s basement. Beer and hash they could mooch off of. It was fun. How did it all go so wrong, how did it all change so quickly?

He blinks and drips tears into the carpet, a small baggie of white powder lies half under the couch. Something surges in his chest at the sight of it and he grabs it between his fingers, squeezes until the tips of his nails turn white.

More than anything he wishes he could go back. Two hours, just two Goddamned hours. Then Mike’s world wouldn’t have ended.


End file.
